A Handful of Wishes
by Masako Moonshade
Summary: A collection of oneshots and drabbles, rated everything from K-M
1. Stalking Wolves

Disclaimer: I own nothing, etc, etc, etc

Disclaimer 2: This is not a shipping fic, though it is about sex and seduction. Unless you want it to be a shipping fic, of course, at which point go right ahead, though what ship this actually endorses is kind of up for grabs, IMO.

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><p>Ruby's always had a thing for wolves.<p>

That's what Granny calls them, anyway—wolves. Predators who prowl in the shadows, hunting down defenseless young women who don't know any better than to wander alone at night.

Ruby may look the part, but she's nothing like the typical prey. She knows their game, and she's much better at it than anyone in this town. Granny purses her lips at that, calls it shameful, mutters under her breath about cheap call girls (Ruby's anything but cheap). Ruby would tell her to quit living in the last century—when men do what she does they're congratulated—but Ruby knows better. Times don't change. No matter what anybody says, things weren't 'better' yesterday, or yesteryear, or last century. _Dangerous Liaisons_, anyone?

Besides, she's careful. Always tells people where she's going, when she'll be back. Keeps Sheriff Graham on speed dial (though he's so far down the Mayor's pants that he's never coming out; Ruby respects the other woman's stake, even if Regina's a bitch and he's cute). She never leaves the house without a can of Mace, either, though she's only had to use the spray once.

But sometimes you get tired of playing it safe. Sometimes you want to push yourself. A real challenge.

Sometimes you want the top dog himself. Mr. Gold.

Yes, he's twice her age. Yes, he scares the bejeezus out of her. But that makes it more interesting.

He's at least forty (and she has to make herself not think about him being the same age as her deadbeat dad, because that'll kill the mood faster than a semi on black ice) so she's not surprised to find he's not exactly an online personality. She found an eBay account that might be his and the website for his pawn shop, but nothing on the social networks. She even checked Xynga and MySpace, just to be sure, though she doesn't know why (Nobody uses those anymore, at least not the people around here, so why does she remember sifting through those sites? Why does she have accounts on both of them?).

When the internet turns out to be a dud, she turns to the conventional method. She'll admit it's stalking, as much as a fox stalks a rabbit, but she doesn't do anything illegal. It's subtle at first, almost invisible. She volunteers for more chores, does more shopping, takes Granny's car out for a wash and a tune-up, asks for extra shifts at the diner. All the while she keeps her eyes open. Taking notes.

His habits aren't regular, but there's a certain pattern to them. A serpentine efficiency to the way he moves, the places he goes. He'll stop by the other shops around town, browsing for sales (he's always looking out for a deal, but everybody knows that) and then makes his rounds to collect rent. Most of the people in town owe him money, and so he divvies them up across the month, visiting two or three each day to collect his dues. Then back to his shop for tea, where he stays until late each night.

With a name like Gold, you'd think he'd be into the shinies, but it's more the old things that catch his eye. The unlikely treasures. In the spring you'll see him limping through yard sales, examining old dolls and picture frames like they're made out of diamonds. Ruby dresses accordingly. She skimps on makeup and extensions, ditches her typical fare for the classier, more conservative look. Granny would approve, except she's caught on, and she's busy lecturing Ruby about how he's too old, too dangerous, too unpredictable.

Like that isn't the whole point.

It's when Granny tells her he'll break her heart that Ruby laughs. She doesn't have any illusions of taming him, or marrying him, or any of that other fairytale bullshit. This isn't about falling in love—and honestly, the idea of getting all gushy about him are somewhere between horrifying and hilarious—it's about the hunt.

She moves in on him slowly. In the beginning it's just a smile, faint at first and then brighter. A word here or there, asking about the paper in his hand, noting the weather. The first couple of times, surprise flickers in his eyes, like he's confused that she isn't cowering at his polished patent leather shoes. But he regains himself fast enough and starts talking back. One and two word responses at first, seedlings of conversation, but she cultivates them into sprouts, guides them into actual discussions. They last a few minutes, sometimes. Meanwhile her manager taps his foot behind the counter, but he knows better than to interrupt a conversation with Mr. Gold.

Quickly enough their talks turn into sparring matches. Ruby obeys rule number one—don't talk about yourself, because guys don't like girls who are self-absorbed—but Mr. Gold is just as determined not to let the conversation turn to him. They could stick to neutral subjects, but that wouldn't be nearly as fun, and so they jab and parry, feint and rebound, like they're dueling with epees made of words.

"When did your shop open?" gives her an opening, and she takes a chance on "You never really think about being a pawn broker as a dream job, you know? Doctor, lawyer, business man, sure, but broker? Is that what you were aiming for?"

"Were you aiming for waitress?" he counters.

"For college, actually." She concedes the information with a shrug, an informal apology for too blunt a question. Next time she'll do better. "I got accepted into Yale a few years back. Couldn't go, though. Turns out Granny can't live without me." It might not have had anything to do with her leaving, but she'd taken Granny's heart attack as a sign. The next one wouldn't be nearly as painless, and Ruby didn't want her alone when it happened. "How about you? Any college?"

"I've found it's not always necessary." A direct-ish answer. _Apology accepted,_ he says in the subliminal language of the game,_ but watch yourself._

A week later they meet by carefully calculated chance on the street—she's taking the scenic route home from work and he's on his way back from a late-night collection (from Mr. French, who's always scraping to pay off his debts at the last possible minute). The conversation continues where it left off as they walk together, and they pass _Romualdo's_.

"One moment," Mr. Gold says, turning to step through the door. "I have a bit of business to attend to."

"I'll come with, if you don't mind." A spark of satisfaction prickles her scalp as he gives her an absent nod. This is the kind of place guys talk about taking her when they're really smitten, but she's never seen the inside. When she passes close enough to a table to read the menu, she understands why—the first entrée she glimpses costs more than she makes in a week.

She's torn between wistful temptation and outrage that anyone would spend that kind of money on a plate of chicken, but she keeps a pleasant smile on her face as she walks at Mr. Gold's side. He signals her with a glance to stay behind, and he disappears into the back room, where the sizzle and clang of the kitchen drown out their conversation.

Instead Ruby focuses her attention on the dining room—the embroidered tablecloths, the silverware that looks like it's made of actual silver, the delicate marble statues and busts that line the walls. The air sings with the scent of basil and roasted garlic, and it's enough to make her mouth water. For a while she's too busy taking it all in to realize that she's being watched—by half the restaurant, from the look of it. They're not blatant about it, but every so often an eye will turn in her direction, appraising her before it flashes away.

Except for the mayor. She sits alone at her table, the salad in front of her ignored while she meets Ruby with a studious eye. Ruby smiles and offers a faint nod in acknowledgement. It's like playing with dogs—you don't want to be the first to look away. But Regina isn't shifting her gaze, and something in her expression tells Ruby that a fight might be looming on the horizon. The smart move is to avert her gaze, but a voice in the back of her mind whispers that that might be even worse.

Mr. Gold saves her—so to speak. The door opens behind her and he sweeps into view, giving her a good reason to turn her attention away from Regina.

"Are you hungry?" he asks, with the same tone that someone else might say "sit". She wonders if she actually has the choice to say no. "It seems Mr. Romualdo is providing dinner on the house tonight."

_Gee, that's not foreboding at all._ Through the still-swinging door she can see the man who she assumes owns the establishment—at least, she sees a man who's white as a sheet and drenched in sweat, his eyes wide and his jaw shaking. That's usually a good indicator that someone owes Mr. Gold money.

Even the waiter is sweating as they take her coat and push in her chair, though he makes a good show of smiling like nothing's wrong. Mr. Gold orders wine without glancing at the list.

"I recommend the carbonara," he tells her, and so that's what she tells the waiter—who hasn't left them for a second, though from the corner of her eye Ruby notes glasses that need filling and tables that need bussing. Regina sits at her table like it's a throne, swirling ice in her otherwise empty glass.

A faint, satisfied smile crosses Mr. Gold's lips, though he's turned away from the mayor's table and there's no way he should be able to hear the ice clinking in her glass from across the room. He knows he's being watched. And he's enjoying every second of it. A chill crawls down Ruby's spine as she realizes that she's not the only one playing a game, and from the look in Gold's eye, he's in an entirely different league.

Anxiety starts to creep in. This place is too big, too ritzy. She should go back to her diner and her waitressing and forget this stupid game of hers before she makes a wrong move. Nervous tingles are racing up and down her arms when her eyes land on a marble bust against the wall, just barely visible over Gold's shoulder.

"They have Cleopatra here," she says before she can stop herself. Mr. Gold glances over his shoulder, following her gaze.

"Not the real one," he says.

"Of course not. That's somewhere in Germany. But it's a nice touch. Most people wouldn't recognize it." The woman in the bust has a soft chin and a long nose and eyes so wide they'd make a deer jealous. It doesn't look like what you'd expect from an ancient Egyptian queen, but Ruby knows the face by heart. "I've always liked Cleo. She had style." Cleopatra more than played the game—she won it, ruling Egypt for more than twenty years, riding out invasions and civil wars with the kind of grace and panache that the mayor couldn't even dream of.

The bust turns the conversation to history, and suddenly Ruby's back in her game. History she knows. She matches Gold fact for fact, stretching him across ancient Egypt and into Greece, Rome, drawing him to the tumult of medieval Europe (he does most of the talking there, his stories filled with so much detail it feels like he's been there himself). He drinks as he speaks, though the wine is dry and leaves Ruby parched. By the time dessert rolls around she can see it having an effect on him. He's talking faster now, his voice a little higher pitched than before, and an odd lilt keeps leaking through the controlled smoothness she's used to hearing.

Ruby's inner waitress rebels at leaving without the check, but Gold said dinner was free, and he's talking as he walks. She can't get too far away from him without losing the conversation, though it's not what he says that matters—it's the fact that he's not stopping. No "Goodbye, I'll see you later" or "If you'll excuse me, it's getting late". He expects her to keep coming with him. When he pauses for breath she fills the silence with words of her own, another unspoken signal: _I'm with you until you kick me out_.

At this point they've reached Madame du Pompadour. His own thoughts keep straying to the growing whispers of the French Revolution, though that bloodbath is still more than a hundred years away. There's something in the way he talks, like he can see the tiny threads across history, twisting together until they tangle into world-shaking cataclysms. Like he can stand there and watch it unfold.

The fire in his eyes sends shivers down her spine. It turns into a jolt as they approach his house, rising like a castle among the smaller homes on either side.

His house. The lair of the beast. And he's leading her inside, like he expects her to follow. Like all this is perfectly natural. She remembers an old primal fear, stories she only half-remembers hearing, that he keeps the bodies of ex-girlfriends in a closet somewhere. A part of her wants to run away, but that would be a forfeit. Instead she draws her purse tighter against her thigh and takes comfort in the canister of Mace she feels there.

It isn't a perfect defense, but it's something.

She's not sure what she expected his house to look like on the inside (aside from the bodies, of course, but she doesn't really believe in all that), but it strikes her as old. Tastefully decorated, but all of it out of date, more like a display in a museum than an actual house. A spattering of dust has accumulated in the chairs, though it looks like they're beaten out every so often. The only sign that this house is lived in at all is the collection of antiques crowded on the table, waiting to be sorted and priced.

She's so busy taking it all in, she doesn't notice that he's stopped talking. Only when she turns, when she's caught sight of him standing there, _smiling_.

It's a predator's smile.

"Awfully brave of you, dearie," he says. "Coming in here. There's plenty of people couldn't have managed it."

Something about the look in his eye makes her blood run cold.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she says lightly, though she takes a step back.

"I think you do." His teeth flash through the smile, one of them crowned in gold. She can feel the can of mace through the fabric of her purse. He's standing between her and the door, which he's already shut behind him. A maddened voice in the back of her mind tells her to make for the window—a running jump should break the glass, and then she can run and call the Sheriff to save her.

But she doesn't listen to that voice. Instead she obeys the other one, the one that wells in the pit of her stomach and slips out of her mouth before she can stop it:

"My, what big teeth you have."

_Oh. My. God. What the hell was that?_

But now she's said it, and she's got to own it. She flashes a broad smile—wasn't that a funny joke? But now he's laughing—a soft chuckle at first, but it grows. A nice laugh, a part of her thinks, while another part of her wonders what's so damn funny. He tugs the blood-red handkerchief out of his suit pocket.

"Are you familiar with the concept of counting coup, Ruby?" he asks. She blinks, completely dumbfounded by what this has to do with anything, and he continues. "An ancient tradition. A warrior sneaks into a rival's village and touches his enemy, just to prove he can. No blood is shed. It's simply a matter of pride."

He presses the handkerchief into her hand, and his fingers feel like they're made of stone. She didn't realize until now that she's shaking all over.

Gold steps forward, closing the distance between them, and for the briefest of seconds his lips press against hers.

"There's your conquest, dearie," he says. "You've done well. But now it's time to go home."

He leads her to the door like a true gentleman, escorts her down the front step, then disappears back inside. She's vaguely aware that she's moving after that, but she can't feel her legs anymore. She's gone entirely numb.

A few weeks later she learns that Granny's rent has been cut down by a couple hundred each month. Granny keeps throwing her funny looks, but Ruby keeps her mouth shut. She doesn't know what to say.

But she keeps the handkerchief he gave her, on display over her mirror like a wolf pelt.


	2. Duende

I got this prompt from **Aurimynonys**, who got it from elsewhere… You get the drift. I decided to take Aury up on the offer for a prompt. This one is inspired by:

**Duende** - Unusual power to attract or charm.

And is it just me, or is anybody else getting a sudden attack of dyslexia and reading that word as 'denude'?

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><p>Everyone knows about Rumpelstiltskin. He's a magic-spinner, a deal-maker, a trickster. But that's what makes him safe.<p>

She knows he won't hurt her, not now that she's officially his hard-won property. Like any other shrewd businessman, he'll keep her safe and sound until he finds some other use for her, something that's worth at least as much as he paid to get her in the first place. That thought gives her strength, lets her hold her head high and look him in the eye when he threatens and cajoles. It lets her smile, because now she can see all his tittering and squealing as just that, with no clever threats underneath to dangle over her head.

At least, that's what she thought. But now a new threat is creeping into her mind, more insidious and ingenious than anything she could have thought of herself.

He's enchanting her. Ensnaring her mind. Turning her into a fawning, obedient maid. And if she didn't know any better, it just might work.

It's in the way his eyes drift over her when she's looking away. In the lines of his shoulders, in the curve of his jaw, in the way his form-fitting pants show off every taut muscle from his waist to his boots. It's in the smug twist of his grin, which sometimes turns shocked and confused for just a second, without warning.

There's spells too—he's a master of magic, after all. She's sure that must be what makes her heart race when he passes by her, what makes her draw in a long, heavy breath when he leans over her, what makes her fingers ache to touch him when he's close. His crafty spells wind their way into her dreams, filling her nights with the sorts of twisting, luscious images that she'd be scandalized to talk about.

She'd hate him for it if she didn't enjoy it all so much.

Besides, it's all a trick, and she knows it. She knows better than to be fooled by the likes of him. But if he knows she knows, he'll switch tactics for sure. Who can say if she'll be strong enough or clever enough to resist whatever devious ploy he thinks up next?

No. Certainly not. Better to play along. Let him think his spell worked. Let him catch her staring longer than any proper servant should. Let him watch her nibble at the corner of her lip as his spell plants more unrighteous thoughts there.

Let him do his worst.

She'll be right here, enjoying every minute of it.


	3. A Different Approach

This is one of those fics that I like the idea of. No plot, no pairings, just some friendly everyday fluff.

**A Different Approach**

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><p>Dr. Archibald Hopper skirted around his office, rearranging the poster board and markers on his table. His heart hopped around in his chest, the way it always did when he started a new approach to therapy. There were so many things that could go wrong—it could take a bad turn, it could be rejected, it could give the wrong message—but he passed a glance at his umbrella and swallowed.<p>

Only one way to find out, wasn't there?

Five thirty. Regina stepped in, all sharp lines and icy smiles, while Henry followed behind her with wary steps.

"Have fun, Henry," she said in that odd, flat way of hers, casting Archie a momentary glare. "I'll come pick you up in an hour."

The second she disappeared out the front door, Henry ran his usual gamut: his shoulder sagged, he relaxed into the big overstuffed chair, and then he whipped his backpack onto his knees and started working his book out of the bag.

"I've got some new information for Operation Cobra," he chirped, so excited that it hurt Archie to interrupt him.

"Actually..." He'd been hoping to back into this, but knowing Henry that was impossible. "There was something else I'd wanted to talk to you about first. Is that okay with you?" Always leave it to the patient's discretion. Trying to force a boy like Henry to do anything would only ever end in disaster. The last time he'd tried that still rang sharp in his memory, and judging by the suspicion in Henry's eyes, the boy felt the same way.

"Sure..." he said quietly. "What is it?"

But by now, Archie had learned. He gave a confident smile—as confident as he could give, anyway. "Identification. How do you think we're going to figure out who's who if we don't have a good criteria to start with?"

Henry's smile lit up the room. "That's perfect!"

"I thought we could write it down. Sort of visualize." Archie indicated the paper, and Henry bounded to the table as only a ten-year-old could.

"All right, so where do we start?" He had already uncapped the blue marker. "I think Mr. Gold—"

"Actually, I thought we should probably start with princes."

Henry's head bobbed up to meet him, his nose wrinkled. "You think Mr. Gold's a _prince_?"

"No, not at all. But if there's one thing your book has a lot of, it's princes and princesses. That's a good place to start, don't you think?"

"Good thinking." He bent over the page, writing in big sloppy letters across the top.

"So what kind of qualities do you think a prince needs to have? To be a proper prince."

"He's got to be brave," Henry started. "And... humble. The ones who are all full of themselves get turned to stone and stuff. And they've got to be kind to everyone." He wrote down each quality as he came up with it, adding a few at Archie's prompting: _honorable_, _fair_, _diligent_. It wasn't long before the entire poster board was filled, and blue ink smeared across the edge of Henry's hands.

"I think that's about it," he said, satisfied.

"Looks about right." Archie sat down. "But you know, you got me thinking. Snow White and Prince Charming—they're royalty, right?"

"Well, yeah. It's kind of in the name." Henry gave him that sympathetic, humoring smile of a person who knows he's being led. "It's Prince Charming for a reason."

"So if Emma's their daughter, wouldn't that make her a princess?" Archie continued. Judging by the way Henry blinked at that, the thought hadn't occurred to him. "And, since you're her son, wouldn't that make you a prince?"

More blinking, followed by a whispered "whoah". The paradigm, as they say, had shifted.

"And if you think about it," Archie went on, "Regina's a Queen, isn't she? So either way you slice it..."

Henry sat back, stunned at the revelation. "You really think so?" he squeaked.

"I do." Archie flashed a smile. "And I think, if you're going to be a prince, you should be the best one you can be."


	4. Sellsword

This is another prompt piece. This prompt: Sellsword.

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><p>The first one to die is Emma. The Curse-Breaker, the thorn in Regina's side.<p>

He does it with a baleful smile. "Sorry, dearie. It's nothing personal." And then a single bullet carves into her chest, stops her heart. Twenty-eight years he spent waiting for her to arrive, and he barely had the chance to play with his new toy before she crumples on the floor, her eyes like cloudy marbles.

The next is the conscience-cricket, Archie Hopper, too brave for his own good. He stood up to his Queen, threatened her, and that won't do at all. But Gold has to give credit where it's due: the little cricket doesn't cower at the end, doesn't cry or beg. The only outward sign of fear is the whiteness of his knuckles as he clutches the umbrella, before the half-renovated city hall collapses on top of him.

Archie Hopper, crushed like a bug.

Regina was very specific about that. She seems to think it's funny.

The next assignment is very specific, and he swears she made it specifically to foul with his bad leg. It protests against the rungs of every ladder he climbs as he snips through the cable and phone wires, one by one. The town's cell tower is a simpler matter—he can reach it by car, and explosives don't require long periods on his feet.

By morning, Storybrooke is cut off entirely from the outside world.

Dear Prince Charming is executed in the town square, and shortly after, Miss Blanchard joins them. Their end is painful, drawn-out and public, and their bodies are left to rot in the town square. Gold isn't the one to do the deed this time, but he's still left standing in the pool of blood, while Regina steps away to keep it from staining her stilettos.

He stands alone over the bodies, bound by his oath and mute as death. There are no explanations to be made. Nothing they would understand.

Above them, a murder of crows joins the gathering clouds in turning the sky black as coal.


	5. The Siren

Pairing: Rumbelle

Warnings: strong language

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><p>It looks like King Midas has gone and turned his daughter to gold.<p>

Again.

Imagine that.

Rumpelstiltskin takes another swig from the flask and scowls. He would invest in a larger bucket, but this water doesn't keep its magic for long, and it's easier to keep coming back for more than it is to find a way to make it last until the king's next blunder. He wastes enough energy as it is, nipping away the last few minutes of the girl's memories so she doesn't recall being turned into a fancy lawn ornament.

Again.

If the old bastard weren't such a greedy little coward, he'd have asked for the Golden Fleece already (which is sitting pretty with the rest of Rumpelstiltskin's collection, just waiting to be swapped for something better) and washed the powers away.

But no. Who needs love when you can have power? When you can turn your enemies into weapons and bedding into wealth? No, Midas is a monster, and so is everyone like him.

Ahead of him the trees thin and suddenly part, leaving a narrow ring of clear ground around the spring. The siren is already lounging on the water's surface. Her hair falls in chestnut curls around a painfully familiar face—the same face she wears every time he comes here.

It occurs to him that he should kill her—it would hurt less, wouldn't it?—but somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows this is the only reason he keeps coming back. The only reason he doesn't keep raising the price of the water until old Midas can't pay.

"Did it again, did he?" the siren asks in Belle's voice.

"It's the curse of fathers, to murder their children." He crouches at the water's edge and dunks the bucket into the spring, bitterness joining alcohol on his breath. He can hear the soft splashes as she rises to her feet, as she crosses the water to stand at his side. He doesn't need to look up to know how the soaked dress clings to her skin and hugs every curve.

She bends down beside him and picks up his flask. Thoughtfully she swishes its contents around. "Funny. You're far too drunk for so little alcohol."

"It's a bottomless flask." His grin would be cruel if he could manage it. "And how would you know how drunk I am?"

"I know last time you could at least walk in a straight line." Belle's mouth curls into a wry grin and she offers him her hand. "You look like you could use cheering up."

"And you look like you could use a meal," he says flatly, though he lets her help him up.

"As if I could actually hurt you." Her hands glide up his arms, his shoulders, the high arches of his collar, and tangle in his hair.

He knows better.

He knows that this isn't Belle. That she's gone and she'll never come back. That this is just some clever trick that he's far too smart to walk into.

But when her lips—_Belle's_ lips—close on his, all he can do is kiss her back. His hands explore her body, his tongue investigates her mouth, and she returns the favor with a passion that's too fiery for a water sprite. He pulls her flush against him and for a few beautiful, crystalline minutes, he can pretend she's alive and whole and really there with him.

But then the moment shatters like teacups on stone, and he shoves her away. The look she gives him is wounded, but patient, and she dons her normal face again.

She knows by now that he can't stand to look at Belle any longer. Too much and he'll go mad.

He grabs his flask and his bucket and stalks away without another word. He struggles to keep moving, despite the urge to curl up into a ball and sob. He tells himself it's the alcohol. That he's simply drunk. That he really should kill that damned siren, because she's a fucking, fucking liar.


	6. The Hunter

The Hunter

Pairing: Rumbelle

Warning: T-rated sexuality

This is a companion piece to Duende. The other side of the coin, if you will.

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><p>In hindsight, maybe he shouldn't have caught her. Maybe he should have used magic instead, slowed her fall until she floated soft as a feather to the ground. Maybe he should have kept his eyes on the blinding light of the window, instead of letting them flicker to her eyes, follow the curve of her cheeks, stray to the tantalizing plunge of her breasts as they disappeared under her bodice. Maybe, if he was going to stare anyway, he should have made it quick—a darting there-and-back-again, too quick for her to notice.<p>

He should have done a lot of things. Unfortunately he didn't.

And now the game has changed.

She's bolder than before. She does more leaning than she once did, showing off her curves with satisfied smiles. All the tentative shyness has fallen away, and now she walks with all the grace and confidence of a predator on the hunt.

Every so often he catches her sneaking glances of her own, especially when his back is turned, especially when he walks. A part of him regrets the state of his wardrobe and its (suddenly suspicious) lack of loose-fitting pants. Another part of him toys with the idea of shrinking them further, just a touch, and giving her something to _really_ stare at.

The fact that he's thinking it at all chills his bones.

Thoughts like these should be long extinct from his head. He's the Dark One—dreaded and feared. All he should be feeling is the thrill of a deal, the satisfaction of success, the smug intoxication that comes with raw power.

Jitters and nervous arm-swinging should not factor into that even slightly. He is a beast—he will not be stalked like a trembling little rabbit. Especially not by a girl whom he owns, his property by all rights.

But when something belongs to you, you belong to it too, the same way he is in the thrall of the same magic that he commands.

Treacherous, uncomfortable thoughts keep slithering into his head and constricting his sense. _Go to her_, they whisper. _Hold her close._ _Tell her you adore her. Take her to bed and make her dreams come true._

_Her nightmares_, others hiss. _You're deluding yourself. Imagining things. A kiss from your lips would drive her mad. You're hideous. A monster. No one could ever love you. _

_Be practical,_ mutter others. _Even if she does love you (not that she does) a kiss like that would ruin you. Take away your power, leave you a trembling coward again. There goes her precious village, and there she'd go too, just like that. Have some sense. Stay away from her._

He listens to reason, if only because the duel between delight and despair are driving him mad. It would be easy enough to obey his faculties, if not for Belle herself.

Because she keeps prowling his castle (and with each passing day he gets a stronger suspicion that she is becoming the estate's true master it and he is becoming her plaything). He swears she listens for his footsteps; when he takes refuge (he swears he isn't hiding) in less-used chambers she finds excuses to clean there. Even now she's coming his way (he thought for sure that she was mopping in the library), her hips swaying, her chin tucked conspiratorially.

He can't help himself. He backs away. One must respect personal space, after all. A wink of the Sight tells him that she's sneaking another peek at his backside, though he still doesn't know how to feel about that. He turns to glance at her—the smolder in her eyes, the playful curl of her lips—and his heart almost stops in his chest. She leans forward, close to him. Closer.

Fire and ice wage war in his veins, and he's left in a wild panic. He dances away from her, too quickly to be casual, and he can see her taking it in.

_Enjoying_ it.

She pulls herself up onto the table, leaning back just so, and the look in her eyes says she knows exactly what it's doing to him.

"Why did you want me here?" she asks.

A question. That he can do. It takes him a moment to remember how to speak.

"Place was filthy," he mutters, barely managing to inject a note of his normal squeak. He takes a sip of tea to keep his mouth shut before he can say anything else.

She gives him a sidelong glance. She doesn't believe him for a second. "I think you were lonely. Any man would be lonely."

Oh gods, if that isn't an invitation he doesn't know what is. All he needs to do is wrap his arms around the small of her back and pull her to the edge of the table—

"I'm not a man," his good reason mutters aloud. He won't give in. He won't be beguiled. Instead he hoists himself up beside her, his thigh touching hers through the fabric, a deliberate show that he's not afraid of her, thank you very much, that she has no power over him.

If only he could mean it.


	7. Forever

Everyone's got their theories on the curse- what it's for, why Rumpelstiltskin made it, and so forth. This is my own theory, in drabble form.

* * *

><p>Forever is such a nasty word. It trickles down his skin like grains of sand, counting off the years that have vanished without a trace. Forever is too long to live in guilt and self-loathing. Too long to watch his heart break over and over as the ones he loves are taken away.<p>

This is damnation, the price he must pay for a power he didn't understand.

He's committed crimes—no doubt about that. Crimes without measure, though not without number—oh, he's kept a careful ledger, calculated the weeks and months and years that any reasonable man will rot in the belly of hell. He's measured that time against the strength of his own sanity, and come with a final, happy number. A compromise.

Twenty-eight.

Twenty-eight years he will spend living out the same day over and over again, caged within his own guilt, in a prison of his own making. Any longer than that and he might lose his mind. Any longer than that and the hero-child will have found peace and family of her own in another land, and curiosity about her homeland will wither and die.

No, it must be twenty-eight.

He aggravates the process, of course: lames himself with bits of chipped cup, traps himself in the guise that Bae last knew him in. That's the face he'll have to look in the mirror for twenty-eight years, and he'll wear it as gracefully as only a convict can. After a decade or so, he'll even stop flinching at his reflection.

Maybe, after all that, he'll die. Maybe he'll be thrown into another cell in another world. Maybe he'll forgive himself and try, one last time, to be happy.

Because that's what this is all about, isn't it?

And when he looks around at the witches and ogres and dragons, at the peasants who don't get to marry princes and the virgins who don't get saved from their sacrificial altars—

He pities them. Almost as much as he loathes himself.

So he scoops them up, arranges them in a dollhouse of his own design, dresses them up with new names and new memories. He still hates them, envies them for those little chances they do have—the ones he'll never have again—but maybe it'll be different in another life.

Maybe things will change.

And so he weaves the curse, the blessing, the baptism through time and war, and sets its price: twenty-eight years from every soul.

And twenty-eight more from the man with no soul left to give.


End file.
